


Young Corpses Will Always Haunt Me

by unremarkablegirl



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canonical Child Death, Character Study, Coda, Episode: s01e04 Of Banquets Bastards and Burials, Ficlet, Introspection, Light Angst, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unremarkablegirl/pseuds/unremarkablegirl
Summary: Prompt: Yennefer during the beach scene after the death of the babyExcerpt: Now, she sits. She does not know how long it has been, nor does she care. She can feel the dirt caked on her hands and stuck beneath fingernails, she does not care. The blood has clotted, the wound untouched and unhealed, stinging in the ocean air. She does not care. Here, she sits, still and quiet, not yet able to bring herself to bury the tiny body and lost future. She had tried, immediately after digging the grave, but she could not bring herself to touch the cold, unblemished skin of the life she failed. Each time she brought her hands forward, they shook and trembled, unable to pass softly over the lost babe.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Young Corpses Will Always Haunt Me

The grave had been dug, right there on the beach. Yennefer had not used magic, instead digging into the soil with her bare hands. Somehow, it felt like cheating, using the very magic she had fought so hard for, the magic she coveted and wrapped around herself like battle armour. For the first time in her life, using magic didn’t feel right. She had laid down her armour, had bared herself and had set to work.

Now, she sits. She does not know how long it has been, nor does she care. She can feel the dirt caked on her hands and stuck beneath fingernails, she does not care. The blood has clotted, the wound untouched and unhealed, stinging in the ocean air. She does not care. Here, she sits, still and quiet, not yet able to bring herself to bury the tiny body and lost future. She had tried, immediately after digging the grave, but she could not bring herself to touch the cold, unblemished skin of the life she failed. Each time she brought her hands forward, they shook and trembled, unable to pass softly over the lost babe.

She had collapsed, defeated. This inability, this loss somehow more monumental than the battle. Perhaps it was the magnitude of the silence, even the vastness of the ocean seemed muted in mourning. She could not bring herself to ponder this, to gaze upon the babe, instead turning her gaze to the ocean and her attention inward.

Her hands still tremble but her gaze is unwavering as she looks out at the unending ocean. There is an ache in the hollow behind her ribs. It pulses in tandem with the phantom pains of her twisted spine and warped jaw. It reminds her of a time when she was weak, at the mercy of others. She remembers when she was helpless and voiceless, much like the babe with lifeless lungs laid out next to her. Unlike the babe, she survived, clawing her way into life and power, drawing agency for herself from her own spilt blood.

Her thumb traces along the mark on her wrist. She, too, had been so close to having lifeless lungs, but it would have been of her own volition. Some days, she wonders if that would have been the right decision. These are the days when the phantom pains of a body long destroyed threaten to bring her to her knees. These are the days when echoes of phantom voices ring in her ears, questioning the worth she carved for herself, questioning her strength. 

Those are the days she draws on her magic, not calling it to her hands, nor letting it fall from her mouth, no. She coils it into herself, centering her being and reminding herself of the sacrificial lamb she once was. She had also been the one to lead the lamb to slaughter, she had been both the animal and the leash. Now, now she is the axe. She had been given the chance to grow, the chance to fight and to prosper.

The call of a hawk breaks her from her reverie. She does not flinch. Even with her armour shed, she is strong and she is whole and she is alive. She tells herself she has no fears as she speaks, “Which one of us are you here for?”

She turns her attention to the babe, but leaves her eyes trained on the waves, “I’m sorry you didn’t have a life. But truth be told, you’re not missing much.”

She pauses, ponders, continues, “I know that’s easy for me to say with warm breath in my lungs and you with nothing,” a deep breath, “Still, what would you have had? Parents? Well, they’re the ones who wrote your last act. So not much lost there. Friends? Most likely fair-weather. Lovers? Fun for a bit, I’ll admit, but will eventually disappoint.”

Her eyelids flicker, she does not allow herself to blink, to flinch, to break. Her voice turns rough, the old anger, once so wild, slowly returns, “And let’s face it: you’re a girl.”

She pauses, does not flinch nor blink but draws back all the same. She feels the anger recede, a hollow sadness ringing in her bones and reverberating through her voice, “Your mother was right about one thing. We’re just vessels. And even when we’re told we’re special. As I was. As you would have been. We’re still just vessels. For them to take, and take, until we’re empty. And alone.”

Here she pauses, again. Her eyes sweep over the ocean, gaze unwavering but softer, more open, as she rallies herself and draws on the strength she has, even without her armour. Her voice does not waver, she draws in a breath, lets it filter out, finds herself finally able to look at the babe as she continues, “So count yourself lucky. You’ve cheated the game and won without even knowing it.”

She does not stare nor linger. She reaches out, her hands are steady as she holds the babe and sets her to her final cradle. 

“Sleep well.”

She does not call on her magic, still devoid of her armour, as she buries the babe and settles her into the earth. She covers the face last, her hands are steady but still, she does not let them linger. She draws them to her lap, caked in mud, and sets to the first and last vigil ever paid to this lifeless youth.

She does not know how much time passes before she lifts herself. She stares at her hands, turns them over and takes note of the mess. She turns and sets them into the cold water, it is a shock to her system.

At last she stands, tall and strong, but not proud. She calls on her magic, sets to putting her armour back in place. She does not treat her wound, it is to be her penance. At last, she calls a portal forward, battle ready. She steps through, she does not look back.

**Author's Note:**

> This was p difficult to write 'cause of how much I love this scene, I hope I did it justice!  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://unremarkablegirl.tumblr.com) :)


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